


Version of Me

by TheMipstaz



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - No One Direction, Eleanor Calder & Harry Styles Friendship, F/M, Minor Gigi Hadid/Zayn Malik, Minor Niall Horan/Harry Styles, Royal Eleanor, sk8r boi Louis
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-07
Updated: 2019-06-07
Packaged: 2020-04-08 02:32:53
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,247
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19097968
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheMipstaz/pseuds/TheMipstaz
Summary: In which Eleanor and Harry take on the reckless streets of Doncaster, Louis does Kylie Minogue dirty, and McDonald's is the ultimate wooing technique.





	Version of Me

**Author's Note:**

> I chose the prompt: _i just want a sk8er boi au with eleanor as some sort of preppy princess (or actual royalty?) who falls in love with scruffy punk louis against everyone's wishes._ So whoever thought of this wonderful prompt, I hope this does it justice! 
> 
> Title from Sasha Sloan's [Version of Me](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pbLWdhqLW8M/). 
> 
> Shoutout as always to [Skye](https://twistofpayne.tumblr.com/) for looking over this!

“Harry, I don’t know about this.”

“C’mon, Eleanor, what’s the worst that could happen?”

“Someone could catch us.”

“So what? You’re already, like, thirtieth in line for the throne—”

“Twenty-eighth,” she corrects unnecessarily because she’s only told him a million times.

“Whatever. It’s not exactly like you’ve got a kingdom on the line.”

“We could get lost,” she warns even as she follows him as loyally as she did all those years ago when they first met in primary school—Eleanor complimenting Harry’s painted nails and Harry inviting her to go play baker in the plastic toy kitchen. “What if we get, like, mugged or something.”

Harry levels her with a flat look. “Unless your posh arse has got solid gold bars hidden in your pocket, I think we’re fine. Now come on or we really will get caught.”

She huffs just to be contrary. “Twenty-eighth in line, remember? I could totally have gold in my purse. Maybe my phone case is diamond-encrusted.”

Harry rolls his eyes as they sneak further down the hall, the booming music of the fashion show catwalk fading into the distance. Harry finds an emergency exit and flings it open, spilling bright light into the corridor of the dingy warehouse-turned-Fashion-Week-venue. He throws his arms wide and takes an exaggerated breath. “Ah, the fresh Doncaster air. I can already smell the thieves and skullduggery.”

Eleanor shoves him out of the way. “Oh, shut it.”

Harry dramatically pretends to tumble to the ground even as he laughs.

Eleanor doesn’t deign to help pick him up. “Okay, so we’re out here. What’s the next step in your elaborate escape plan?”

Harry rubs his stomach hopefully. “Chippy?”

She grins. “Kale aioli and pickled eggplant hors d’oeuvres not good enough for you, Styles? Who’s posh now?”

“You caught me,” Harry concedes tragically. He picks a direction seemingly at random and begins to amble away. “My tastes have gone to the wolves. I have been reduced to craving grease and potatoes like an absolute heathen.” He casts her a crooked grin over his shoulder. “Good thing I know a place.”

* * *

“Nialler!” Harry cries jovially as he bursts into the tiny hole-in-the-wall fish and chip shop, door bell jingling and merry neon OPEN sign buzzing with electricity.

“Hazza! Haven’t seen you in ages. What’s the craic?”

“I’m alright, yeah. How’s little Theo?”

Eleanor doesn’t waste her time wondering how the hell Harry knows about the four year-old nephew of a guy who owns a tiny chippy in a village Eleanor’s pretty sure Harry couldn’t locate on a map. Instead, she lets Harry nod along to Niall and snorts when Harry pretends he knows who the hell Justin Rose is and agrees, _yeah, the PGA Tour is wicked this year, innit?_ She has to look away before she rolls her eyes and blows Harry’s cover. She never imagined golf talk could be flirty; but, to be fair, she also never thought high fashion could intersect with agriculture, and look at Harry’s last Gucci campaign.

While Harry makes lewd golf club innuendos, she scans the room. The only other two people in the place appear to be two boys crammed in a corner booth. She doesn’t get a good look beyond shiny black hair slicked back with a hairband and a couple skateboards propped against the wall before Harry wraps up their order. He rattles the tip jar with his change and heads straight towards the boys. Eleanor trails behind more cautiously. She eyes the one with his back facing her—messy brown hair, lean shoulders, and faded tag peeking out of the back of the shirt collar.

Eleanor feels distinctly out of place in her cashmere jumper and gold rings when they get close enough to see the boys’ ratty trainers and probably-not-ripped-when-bought jeans. She tries to subtly roll her sleeve down to cover her crystal-face watch while Harry distracts them with a cry of, “Louis! Zaynie!”

“Harold!” The red shirt jumps up, popped out tag disappearing as he turns to face them for the first time. He wrests Harry into a tight hug, ruffling his hair in a way that makes Eleanor wince when she thinks about how long Lou spent attacking it with sprays and combs. They devolve into mock wrestling that pulls at the sleeves of Red Vans Shirt and exposes a bemusing tangle of tattoos that Eleanor tells herself she has no business feeling curious about.

“Hey, Harry.” The all black ensemble is next, clapping Harry on the back with a crinkle-eyed smile. When Harry reaches for the headband holding back his tidy hair, he ducks in a well-practiced move.

“Louis, Zayn,” Harry steps back to look at her, “meet Eleanor. Eleanor, Louis and Zayn.”

They exchange polite handshakes and cheek kisses. Then Harry slides in next to Zayn, leaving Eleanor to flounder for an awkward moment before she gingerly eases herself next to Louis. She doesn’t get a chance to glare at Harry for not warning her about his ridiculously fit friends before the three of them launch into a whirlwind conversation that causes Eleanor’s head to spin trying to keep up. She doesn’t know who Liam and Ed are or why Louis wants Harry to Instagram stalk someone named Naomi, but she nods along quietly anyway. She bobs her head and hums occasionally while trying to discreetly appraise Harry’s friends from the corner of her eye.

Zayn’s easier, sitting across the table. She admires his glinting earrings and angled cheekbones even as she curses his full lashes, the bastard. He seems the most reserved out of the lot, mostly content to listen to Harry praise the peas at Jeff’s latest dinner party—

“I tried to get Glenne to tell me her secret, but she just laughed at me.”

“Maybe it’s Maybelline.”

“Oh, shut it, Lou.”

“They’re just peas, Haz. Don’t you just, like, I dunno, boil ‘em? Not sure if they’ve got a secret.”

—or snort at Louis complaining about Bruce vomming on the rug after Daisy snuck him food under the dinner table.

“The little buggers, I can’t constantly watch both of them. I’ve only got so many eyes.”

“Exactly, one for each.”

“Brilliant, Harry. I’ll just go full chameleon on them, yeah? How come I didn’t think of that?”

“Probably because you’re too busy taking the piss out of my peas.”

But when Harry’s drawl or Louis’ wit coaxes a laugh out of Zayn, Eleanor can’t help but lap it up eagerly. She thinks she could watch his shy smile and bright eyes forever.

If only the idiot next to her would stop fidgeting for one fucking minute. Louis is all ceaseless movements: sweeping back his hair with a hand, leaning forward to flick Harry between the eyes, throwing his head back in laughter. He jars Eleanor’s poised concentration and demands attention. Everytime their shoulders brush with his expansive gesticulations—“No, I swear, Cliff once killed and brought home a sewer rat that was _this_ big! Me mum went mad.”—Eleanor’s stomach flips, so she tries to subtly inch away. Thankfully, the food arrives before she can do something ridiculous like trace the bridge of his nose with a finger or try to telepathically ask Harry if Louis’ single. Because that would be mad, sizing up one of Harry’s mates, completely nonsensical.

She drowns her confusion in the steaming basket of food Niall plops in front of her with a cheery, “Enjoy!”

“Better than reduced beet compote or what?” Harry mumbles smugly around his mouthful.

Eleanor doesn’t even bother with words, just groaning her appreciation at the piping hot fish and crisp chips. She manages, “Would be better with more vinegar,” between massive chews.

“Ah, very ladylike and proper, this country’s next monarch,” Harry grins, but he gets up anyway.

“Fuck off,” Eleanor says without heat, smacking her lips and flipping his back off for good measure as he meanders over to the front counter where Niall lights up. Based on the angle of Harry’s hunch towards Niall and the veritable stars in his eyes, she has a feeling she won’t be getting her vinegar for a while.

“What are you, a princess or sommat?” Louis eyes her skeptically like he expects her greasy fingers and smudged lipstick to go up in a puff of smoke and leave behind an opulent Victorian sovereign.

“Or something.” Eleanor tries not to flush, not sure why she suddenly feels uncomfortable and feeling annoyed with herself for it. She straightens her back a bit, subtly tilts her chin up. “I’m twenty-eighth in line for the throne.”

Louis’ eyes bulge, and he chokes on a chip.

“Are you really?” Zayn perks up while Louis hacks and coughs. “Can you throw this one,” he nods at Louis, “into the royal dungeons?”

“I’m over here dying,” Louis wheezes, eyes watering, “and you’re trying to get me imprisoned. Some best mate you are.”

Eleanor hands him the rest of her water. “Don’t know about dungeons, but one time Harry convinced a kid we knew that I could have him sent to the guillotine.”

“Prick deserved it,” Harry interjects, sitting back down and handing Eleanor an extra saucer of vinegar.

Louis looks skeptical. “Haz, you have to tell my dogs about the surprise parties you plan for their birthdays every year because you hate lying.”

“Bruce and Cliff didn’t call Eleanor a stuck up rich cow and make her cry!”

“Harry,” Eleanor hisses, cheeks warming, “shut up about it. It was ages ago.”

“Well, is she?” Louis asks, not malicious but all blunt curiosity.

“No,” Harry says firmly, tone sharp and challenging.

Louis nods in satisfaction, leans back, and swirls a chip in ketchup. “Well, that’s that then.”

“What an arse,” Zayn agrees, giving his last fish piece to Harry to nibble on.

Eleanor tries not to put too much stock into other people’s opinions. It’s hard enough to bear the expectations of those who matter without falling prey to the judgements of strangers too. It shouldn’t matter that two lads she met 20 minutes ago don’t see her as an insufferable blue-blooded toff. But she can’t help but bite back a smile at the warmth pooling in her chest anyway. It doesn’t fade even when Louis taps her on the shoulder and steals her last chip when she looks around.

* * *

“So this is how the 1% live, huh?” Louis swills his crystal champagne flute with a little too much enthusiasm and slops it over the rim. “Oops, shit.” He laps at the rivulets coursing down his wrist until Zayn whacks him.

“ _Bro_ , cut it out.”

“Fuck, sorry, but oi, this stuff is good.”

Eleanor giggles at Louis trying to subtly mop the spilled champagne under a table with his scuffed Vans while Harry sighs and goes to flag down a waiter for a serviette. “Please try to keep them from burning down the whole place,” Harry says before he leaves. “Grim would never forgive me.”

“No promises.” Eleanor winces as she watches Zayn cautiously sample a pickled goji berry tapenade and immediately retch.

“No wonder all the models are so thin,” Zayn grumbles, nose wrinkling. “All your rich people food is shit. Give me a Nando’s any day.”

“Oh God, I would kill for peri-peri chicken right now.”

It takes all of Eleanor’s self control not to laugh out loud at the literal double take Zayn does when he turns to see who spoke. To be fair, Gigi is easily one of the most gorgeous people Eleanor’s ever seen, and as a fashion blogger, it’s literally her job to look at pretty people.

“Yeah?” Zayn coughs, finding his voice again after a couple dumbstruck moments doing his best impression of a heart-eyes emoji.

“Oh yeah. I don’t joke about peri-peri chicken,” Gigi says in a mock serious tone, eyes sparkling in a way that piques Eleanor’s interest. She extends a hand. “I’m Gigi.”

“Zayn. Pleasure to meet you.”

Gigi tilts her head appraisingly. “I haven’t seen you around before.”

“Er…”

Eleanor can actually see the gears in Zayn’s brain whirring to come up with an eloquent way to say _yeah, I’m regular lad, and you’re a literal supermodel, so why the hell would you ever have met me before, but would you maybe like to go grab dinner?_ and jumps in quickly, “Hey, Gigi, yeah, actually Zayn’s not a model.”

Zayn preens while Louis mutters under his breath, “Oh God, he’s going to be annoying as fuck after this.”

“Him and Louis,” she nudges Louis, who straightens up and waves, “they came to watch with the show with me and Harry.”

“Oh,” Gigi turns back to Zayn. “Not signed with cheekbones like that?”

“Maybe,” Eleanor says slowly, glancing between Zayn, who may not have blinked since he set eyes on Gigi, and Gigi, who has drifted closer and closer to him, “you could talk to Zayn a little about what it’s like to get into the modeling business.” She tacks on, “Over Nando’s.”

Louis lets out a low whistle as Gigi and Zayn wander off, heads tilted towards one another. “I can’t believe you just set my best mate up with an actual supermodel. If the whole monarch thing doesn’t work out, I’d say you’ve got a decent future in matchmaking.”

“Could do.” Before Eleanor can pluck up the courage to ask if Louis’ looking for a supermodel of his own, a squealing pack of girls manifests out of the milling crowds. Their giggly greetings come machinegun fast.

“Eleanor!”

“Lovey!”

“How are you, darling?”

Eleanor’s face goes tight, smile brittle. “Hi, girls, how are you?” She leans in to exchange a flurry of cheek kisses. “Enjoying the show?”

“Oh, it was just magnificent. The variegated color scheme and how it juxtaposed with the designer’s tragic past, absolutely fantastic.”

“Did you catch the reference to the last _Game of Thrones_ season?”

“And how all the models’ expressions reflected the nuanced social commentary on the recent politics.”

Louis asks, “What politics is that?”

“Oh,” one of the girls blinks, taken aback, as though no one has ever asked her that before. Her bubbly momentum falters as she stops to think about it. “You know, that one Labor MP, who said, like, that really contentious statement. You know the one. He’s been all over the news.”

“Uh huh,” Louis says slowly, shooting Eleanor a sidelong glance.

“Anyway,” the lead girl prattles on, regaining steam. She dismisses Louis with a disdainful look down her delicately arched nose. “It was so wonderful to see you, Eleanor, my dear.” She tips forward on her precarious heels for another round of cheek kisses. Then she and her entourage sweep past Louis, flowery perfume strong enough to make his eyes water.

“Charming lot,” Louis comments flatly before they escape earshot.

“Oh good, have the vultures gone? Someday I’m going to figure out who keeps inviting them to these things. Last year, they suggested I switch to a new brand of eye cream because mine clearly wasn’t working. Annie Mac laughed for ages.”

“Grimmy!” Eleanor whirls around to hug him.

“Your Majesty.” Nick pulls back to curtsey with a theatrical flourish of his arms.

Eleanor ducks a flailing limb and bites back a fond grin. “Oh fuck off, Grimshaw.”

Nick sidles up to Louis, nudges him with an elbow, and loudly whispers behind a hand, “Can you believe the absolute aplomb and eloquence from this one? Nothing but class from our royals, you know.”

Louis nods solemnly. “Only the best and brightest to represent our beloved country.”

Nick laughs and throws a friendly arm around Louis’ shoulders. “I rather like this one, El. Maybe I’ll keep him.”

“Hey,” Eleanor complains. “you can’t steal my friends. You don’t even know him.”

“Nick Grimshaw, nice to meet you.”

“Louis Tomlinson. Cheers.”

They exchange an awkward handshake because Nick refuses to let Louis go.

“There,” Nick says smugly, sipping at his wine, “we’ve met. Best mates, we are now.”

“You already have a cute boy. Leave some for the rest of us, you greedy bastard. Where’s Mesh anyway?”

Nick shrugs. “Probably outside for a smoke.”

“You wouldn’t like Louis anyway.” Eleanor tugs Louis back to her side, wrapping a protective hand around the inside of his elbow. “He only drinks shitty beer and doesn’t know a single Madonna song.”

Nick sputters in indignation. “What about Kylie Minogue?”

“Is she one of the Kardashians? The rich one, innit?”

Nick makes a pained noise and clutches at his chest. “Betrayed by my own Northern brethren, me. How could you?”

Louis shrugs apologetically and shuffles closer to Eleanor, who bites back a pleased smile.

Nick gives a long suffering sigh. “Guess I better stick with Mesh after all. This one’s all yours.”

After Nick swans off—shaking his head and muttering under his breath, “‘Is Kylie Minogue a Kardashian?’ What has this generation come to? God, I need more wine.”—Eleanor giggles and pokes Louis in the chest. “You know Kylie Minogue. We were singing to her in the car ride here.”

Louis grabs her hand in his, thumbing at the freckles on her knuckles. He cocks his head, the corner of his mouth quirking. “Really? I don’t recall.”

“You’re so full of shit, Tomlinson.” Eleanor doesn’t mean to sound as fond as she does.

Louis tilts his head. “Maybe I just wanted an excuse to stay here with you.”

Eleanor feels her breath catch at that, at the raw honesty that Louis doles out so easily, at the genuine warmth in his blue eyes, at the way his fingers tremble ever so slightly in hers. It makes her head spin.

In a life as high-profile and public as hers, she doesn’t come face to face with vulnerable sincerity often. Even with Harry, she sees his expression shutter into something polite and blandly palatable every time they step outside to face the cameras and scrutiny.

But Louis’ unabashed candor rips apart her carefully constructed persona, lances straight through the fluttering silks she drapes herself in to appear respectable. He isn’t a genteel foreign dignitary waiting for her to slip up and embarrass the country. He isn’t a puzzle she has to navigate in order to come away with her dignity intact. And that’s maybe more confusing than anything else.

So naturally, instead of even attempting to disentangle the mess of feelings swooping in her chest and squeezing her lungs, Eleanor deflects. “Despite the shit rich people food?”

Louis’ eyes crinkle. “Despite the shit food,” he agrees, still not letting go of her hand.

“That’s big of you,” Eleanor continues solemnly. “I don’t know many people who would stick around here when the nearest McDonald’s is down the street.”

“Is that an invitation?” Louis waggles his eyebrows hopefully. “Could really do with some chicken nuggets right about now.”

The thought of sharing a greasy box of fake, processed chicken shouldn’t make Eleanor’s heart beat this fast. She tries to get a hold of herself. “You know that me and Harry are already going to get into loads of trouble when it comes out we snuck off earlier, right?”

Louis shrugs, lowering their hands but not letting go. “We don’t have to. But might as well make the most if then, yeah? Before they put you on house arrest or whatever.” He pauses, frowning contemplatively. “Palace arrest? Is that a thing?”

Eleanor tugs him towards the exit, rolling her eyes when she sees Harry giving them a thumbs up from across the room. “Guess we’ll find out.”

**Author's Note:**

> [Rebloggable](https://nevergooutofstiles.tumblr.com/post/185434054210/version-of-me-for-1drarepairfest-chapters-11) here!


End file.
